The Blameless Bystander

By Autumn Writer

Chapter 16—Agony, Revelation, Atonement, and Knowledge

“How’s the old man, Mark?” Jamie asked as he shook hands with his friend and embraced him.

“I’ll let him tell you, Jamie. He’s in the wing down the hall. I’ll take you.”

The two men walked together through the antiseptic corridor. They dodged gurneys and wheel chairs, squeezing by a crowd of anxious families waiting at the elevator.

“I’m glad that you called me, Mark. You know that he wouldn’t have.”

They arrived at the end of the hallway. The receptionist, a stern, young woman, sat on guard, an authoritative scowl stopping them in their tracks.

“We have to sign in, Jamie. It’s ICU rules.”

They took turns signing as the receptionist shouted into a speaker-phone. “Can McNulty have visitors?”

“Come in,” came the muffled voice from the little box.

“Just one can go in at a time,” the receptionist decreed as they unbuttoned their coats. She saw Father Mark’s collar. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were clergy. You can go in too.”

Father Brendan lay in the hospital bed. There were monitor cables leading away from his body and tubes filled with clear fluid leading into it. There were canula placed inside his nostrils. As they approached, Jamie wondered if he was sleeping, but as they drew nearer the old man turned his head toward them.

“Jamie, I’ve been missin’ ye, boy,” he uttered with hoarseness that Jamie had never known. A nurse was checking the IV lines and he looked at her.

“It’s not what you think,” she said. “His throat’s dry from the oxygen and sore from the biopsy. The tumor isn’t near his vocal cords. It’s farther down.”

“Let me give you some water, Father.” Jamie took the cup of ice chips and raised it to the old priest’s lips. Father Brendan took a few into his mouth.

“T’anks, ’t feels good, Jamie; an’ t’ what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

“I came to see how you’re doing,” Jamie answered.

“I’m doin’ jist fine, boy, as ye can see.”

Jamie was short of words. He grimaced and looked away.

“Ye could ne’er lie t’ me, Jamie. What really brings ye here?”

“I came to confess, Father.”

“And ye t’ink a sick old man will be easy on ye?”

“Reach inside me and pull out my sins like only you can,” Jamie pleaded. “I need to be cleansed. It’s not only for me.”

“I’ll just visit the other patients,” Father Mark said, excusing himself.

“Ye know I haven’t the power, Jamie. Only ye can pull the sins from yer own soul. Are ye ready for ‘t?” Jamie nodded. “D’en, confess t’ me ye shall, Jamie. Kneel here and tell ‘t all t’ me, boy.”

Jamie sank to his knees alongside the hospital bed of his old mentor. He was barely able to see over the rails of the hospital bed. He did tell him all, whether he was sure that it was a sin or not. It was his story since he left the priesthood nine months earlier. He confessed his acts of commission, and omission, too. At first his knees ached from the hard, tiled floor pressing back at him. As his unburdening progressed, he felt like he was floating, a kind of high—a euphoria—that he had nearly forgotten; he welcomed the feeling back.

As he concluded, the old priest closed his eyes. His lips moved in unintelligible speech, but Jamie had no need to hear the words to know what they were. Finally, Fr. Brendan opened his eyes; he snapped his head over to look at Jamie kneeling beside his bed.

“I’ll grant ye absolution, contingent on ye doin’ the penance,” the old priest croaked. “Come closer and I’ll whisper ‘t to ye.”

Jamie stood and bent over the bed, his ear next to the Father’s lips, waiting for the dictum. Father Brendan grasped Jamie by the collar of his shirt with one hand, and by the hair with the other. Intravenous lines and monitor wires flailed like the lines on a derelict schooner in a gale. He pulled him even closer. Jamie could feel the old man’s skin on his own, the coarse whiskers ground against his cheek. Fr. Brendan whispered the penance, and then released him as he finished. “It’s a hard penance, boy, but ‘t’ll do ye good.”

Jamie stood up straight. “I’ll do it, Father,” he promised. By that time the floor nurses had gathered around the bed, along with Father Mark, as all the alarms connected to the old man’s hospital bed had sounded.

“Father McNulty, that just won’t do,” the floor nurse scolded. “Your visitors will have to leave if you can’t lie still.”

“We’re leaving soon, nurse,” Father Mark assuaged her as she rechecked all the lines and cables.

“T’was the last confession d’at I’ll ever hear,” the old priest said. “Ye made it a good one, Jamie,” he said with a chuckle. Jamie and Father Mark shook their heads and laughed a little, too.

“I s’ppose ye know d’at I’m dyin’,” he told them. “T’was m’ old pipe d’at did it, or so d’ey tell me. It was such a friend; I must’ve overindulged. D’ere was a time when a small dram o’ whiskey would take away the little tickle in m’ t’roat—but no more.”

“Father, please don’t say that. We’ll miss…” Jamie tried to console him, but Father Brendan would not hear it.

“Quiet, boy,” the old man admonished. “Jist be hopin’ d’at I’ll put in a good word fer ye when I’m wit’ Himself, speaking directly to Him ‘bout ye.”

A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, signaling it was time for the visitors to leave.

“And don’t ye be t’inkin’ that ye’ll live ferever,” he called after them as they turned for the door. “And bring me a dram o’ Irish Whiskey next time, er don’t ye come at all,” he called louder, and then collapsed into a fit of coughing.

“Whiskey, of all things,” the nurse scolded mildly as she soothed him and straightened his blankets. His coughing subsided.

“I should ‘ave made it part o’ his penance,” he told her.

**************

All the Feed Mill employees had left for the day, except Jamie and Bert. They sat in Bert’s office finishing off the coffee.

“I was hoping that you would take it, James,” Bert said. “I had a feeling when you started teaching those classes at night you’d turn it down.”

“It’s not that I don’t like working for you, Bert. I almost said ‘yes’. My heart would never have been in it. You would be thinking that it was, but I would be giving you ninety percent. The other ten would have been day-dreaming about some math class somewhere.”

“But, James, you don’t even have a job to go to. Why don’t you think it over for a while?”

“Some day there’ll be an opportunity. Nathan might even give me my old job back. In the meantime, you’ve got to move the Mill forward.”

“You don’t have to leave; you can keep working here. There’ll be plenty to do with spring planting just around the corner. You can show Beth how you set up the inventory ledgers.”

“It’s for sure that I won’t be back full time in teaching until September. I’ll stay with you until then.”

“I don’t know how you’ve done it,” Bert said. “You’re up to nearly forty hours a week here at the Mill, and you’re teaching three nights a week. You must be bone tired all the time.”

“Not really. I kind of like it, especially the teaching. It’s not like it’s a job; more a battle against time and numbers. I’m on a mission. Of course, Raymond’s my star pupil. One day soon, he’ll be teaching me.”

“You’d take your job back from Nathan, after what he what he did to you?” Bert asked.

“I might,” Jamie answered. “I won’t say that I wouldn’t have second thoughts about it. I don’t know how much of it was Nathan’s decision or Bob Jackson’s.”

“This whole town hasn’t treated you very well. There’s still some who point when you walk down the street. I wouldn’t blame you if you packed it in and moved back to Boston.”

“I admit that I thought about that more than once, but I’m staying.”

“You’ve got guts, that’s for sure,” Bert said.

“I’ve learned that once you stop running away from others, you can stop running away from yourself,” Jamie said. “If I ever do that, I’ll have real guts.”

“I thought that maybe you’d done that already,” Bert told him.

“I’m working on it,” he laughed.

“You’re one of a kind, James. If you change your mind about that job, be sure to let me know.”

****************

Jamie found the pace of his steps slowing as he marched down the sidewalk. He was approaching his destination and he wasn’t looking forward to what lay waiting for him. It was a breezy day in March, with a little chill. His hair was tousled from the wind. It was his lunch break at the Feed Mill, so his clothes were dusty. He finally stopped at a large stone house with a black, wrought-iron fence. The gate was open and he climbed the stone steps to ring the bell.

Jamie waited for the door to open. He became hopeful that no one was home; he hadn’t called first. It occurred to him that he might have done it that way on purpose. He could always say that he tried.

“Courage, Jamie,” he told himself as he waited. “You’ll just have to come back if no one answers.” As he was about to turn to leave, he heard the doorknob turning. The man he was looking for pulled the heavy door open. Jamie looked him in the eye, wondering if he was staring at Satan in the flesh.

“Reverend Chandler, I’m Jamie O’Toole. I would like to talk to you.”

“I know who you are,” Ethan sneered at him. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

As Jamie eyed him, the evil boiling on Ethan’s countenance began to appear less fearsome. Ethan gave him a look meant to convey hate; Jamie saw it as fear. It was making his task easier.

“Can I come in, Reverend? I’d appreciate a word with you.”

“Why should I let you in? I’ve never allowed a pervert in my house.”

Jamie absorbed the insult, choosing to turn the other cheek. “I can say my piece here on the steps, if that’s what you prefer, Reverend. It would be easier in the house—just in the foyer.”

As Ethan looked him up and down a voice came from inside the house. “Ethan, who’s at the door?” Jamie heard steps approaching on the hardwood floor.

“It’s James O’Toole, Jarrod,” Ethan reported, keeping his scowl. “He wants to come in.”

“What do you want, O’Toole?” Jarrod asked.

“I’d like to speak with Reverend Chandler,” Jamie answered.

“Well, Ethan, let the man in. Don’t keep him out in the cold,” Jarrod flourished his arms in an exaggerated sweep. “Let him speak.”

Ethan backed up to make room, and the three men stepped into the hallway. “Make it fast, O’Toole,” Jarrod ordered. “We were eating lunch.”

“I came to seek your forgiveness, Reverend Chandler,” Jamie began. “I ask you to forgive me for the hate that I felt toward you, and for not doing more to understand you, and for failing to put your mind at ease about me.”

“This is a trick!” Ethan exclaimed. “I’ll not listen to more.”

“Calm down, Ethan,” Jarrod said. “I’m enjoying this. It’s good comedy.”

“There’s more,” Jamie continued. “I’m going to pray for you, and your family. I’ll especially pray for Becky and her child.”

Ethan’s eyes widened and the veins in his neck stuck out as he clenched in rage.

“Easy, Ethan; you know he’s a fool,” Jarrod cautioned. “Is that all, O’Toole?”

“Almost,” Jamie replied. “I also wanted to tell you that I forgive you for the transgressions that you committed against me.”

“Blasphemy!” Ethan roared. “I’ll accept no forgiveness from Satan’s Child. You’ll not ruin my hatred for your evil soul.”

Ethan rushed Jamie, his arm raised to strike him. “I’ll smite Beelzebub!” he screamed. Jamie easily parried the blow, and then grabbed Ethan’s wrists tightly. The two men stood toe to toe—their eyes burning into the one another’s, mere inches away.

“Like I said,” Jamie repeated in a low voice, “I forgive you, and I’ll pray for you.” He released Ethan, turned and let himself out the door.

As he closed it behind him he heard Jarrod. “Ignore him, Ethan. He’s just playing games with you.”

Jamie was happy as he walked briskly down the street toward the Feed Mill. He had performed the penance that Father Brendan had given him. He felt good. It had been less difficult than he envisioned; the cleansing made him ready for better things.

*************

Ethan spent the rest of lunchtime panting with anger. “Ethan, you’re letting this get to you,” Jarrod admonished. “You’re playing right into his hands. Can’t you see that?” His advice was to no avail, as the enraged preacher said nothing, only panted, and stared straight ahead.

Jarrod finally gave up. “I’m not going to stay here if you won’t communicate. I have work back at the office, anyway.” Ethan remained frozen as Jarrod walked out the door where Jamie had stood.

As he heard the door close, Ethan roused himself. He walked to his desk in the study and sat down, picked up the phone book and paged though it. “I’ll have an anointing,” he mumbled. “I’ll seek out the sacred harlot.”

Not long afterward, Ethan was parking on Tracey’s street in front of a house a few doors away from hers. As she arrived home from work she saw the car and thought it was a lookout that Hal had sent to check on her. The car was an odd style to be a police vehicle. She wouldn’t have guessed that they would drive station wagons, even in plain clothes.

“I could really use a shower,” she said to herself as she walked into her house. She went straight to her bedroom and stripped off her clothes. She was alone, so she walked nude to the bathroom and started the water.

The bruises from Jarrod’s beating were nearly gone. She could hardly feel them as she glided the soap over her skin and it mixed with the soothing, hot water. The scar on her lip was healing nicely. Soon, one would have to look closely to even see it. She poured some shampoo into her hand and spread into her hair. She saved some for her triangle below and spread the lather in it. It made her think about Hal. She was hoping to start seeing him when he was relieved from her case and was free to socialize with her.

Her pubic hair was naturally black. She thought of the contrast with her carefully dyed blond hair and regretted the coloring that made her look like what she was not. The blonde would have to go soon, she decided.

She rinsed off and stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. Normally, she would put on her terrycloth robe. She remembered that she had thrown it in the wash that morning, so she wrapped a towel over her wet hair and walked back to the bedroom. The shower had relaxed her and she enjoyed the nakedness.

“I wish Hal were here right now,” she said to herself. “Case—or no case.” She smiled a little as she let the thought drift through her mind. She thought to touch herself to bring the thought of making love to him alive. She decided not to. She’d just save it up until he could touch her. She couldn’t remember when she had been so long without being in bed with a man.”

There was a presence in the bedroom that did not belong there. She glanced to the side.

“What—what are you doing here?” she screamed. Ethan was grinning, sitting unclothed in her bed, waiting for her.

“You have avoided me, woman. I came for an anointing.” He pulled the covers away. His hardened penis stood straight up from his groin, demanding satisfaction.

“Get out!” she commanded, pointing toward the door. ”How did you get in here?” she shouted before she remembered that she had forgotten to lock the door.

“I’ll have you first. You are my woman,” he cried, jumping from the bed, rushing her. Ethan wasn’t as strong as Jarrod, and Tracey wasn’t afraid of him. As he lunged, she grabbed hold of his outstretched arms, catching him before he could fully close on her.

They struggled, locked in each other’s grip. Ethan started spinning the two of them around. Suddenly, somehow, she flew out of his grasp. The force threw her against the sharp edge of the bedroom door jamb. Tracey felt a sharp pain in the back of her head and then herself hitting the floor. She saw nothing but stars. She vaguely felt Ethan on her. For a moment, it occurred to her to fight him off, and then she just wanted to sleep.

When she woke up Ethan was gone. She later calculated that it had been about twenty minutes. Her hair was stringy and dripping. She was again naked and injured, picking herself off her bedroom floor. She felt the back of her head and she winced in pain. She looked at her hand and there was blood on it. There was something on her thigh and belly. It was semen. She felt inside herself. She didn’t believe that he had been in there, but couldn’t be sure. She called the only number she could.

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting on the sofa in her living room telling her story to Hal who sat beside her. She had cleaned herself up and put on cotton-fleece sweats.

“We’ll get you to the hospital and they’ll have a rape kit. Then we’ll arrest the bastard,” Hal told her.

Tracey shook her head. “I already cleaned it off,” she said. “I don’t think he got any in me.”

“You can’t be certain,” Hal answered. “Let’s check it out to be sure.”

“There’s something else,” Tracey said. “I’ve been in bed with him twice before—of my own accord.”

“Hmmm,” Hal grunted. “That complicates things. That still doesn’t give him the right to…”

“Jarrod knows about those times,” she interrupted. “He sent me to him.” Tracey gave Hal a long, hard look. “You understand, don’t you?”

“At least, let me take you to the clinic. You already had a concussion a few weeks ago, and now, probably another one. You have to be checked out. On that, I do insist.”

In the car, on the way to the clinic, Tracey turned to Hal. “Did you mean what you said before?”

“What do you mean?” Hal asked.

“About wanting to see me when you’re off this case.”

“Sure, I did,” Hal answered

“What about now—after this, and all you’ve just found out. Does that change your mind?”

“No, Tracey,” he replied. “I’m just worried about you being safe. I won’t be on the case much longer. The IRS will be taking it over. We were just lending a hand.”

They drove a ways further without saying anything. Tracey’s head ached, but she wasn’t crying. The clinic loomed in the distance. “Please, Hal—get off this case as soon as you can.”

*************

Several days after Jamie returned from visiting Father Brendan he called Connie to invite her out to dinner.

Jamie: “I know it’s short notice. There’s a little Italian place in Corning that I know. Why don’t we go there tomorrow night? You can give me some fine points on the cuisine.”

Connie: “That sounds nice, Jamie, but I know a nice little Italian place that’s even better.”

Jamie: “What place is that?”

Connie: “Not many people know it. It’s called Connie’s Place.”

There was a pause, and then Jamie spoke again.

Jamie “Oh, I get it; sometimes I’m a little slow.”

Connie: “Seven o’clock; bring some wine.”

So it was that Jamie found himself in Connie’s house, probing a home-made Veal Scaloppini with his fork. She had set up a table in her living room, complete with red and white checkerboard tablecloth and candles. She had done an excellent job preparing the food. Jamie would normally be on helping number two, but he couldn’t manage to get his appetite aroused. He took a sip of wine to help. “I think that your new hairdo looks nice,” he said, looking for a way to fix his mood.

“It’s not really a hairdo, Jamie, I just had it trimmed and shaped.”

“I thought that’s what a hairdo was. Anyway, it looks nice.”

It did look nice, and so did the slight application of makeup that she put on. It wasn’t a dramatic change—hardly noticeable to the untrained eye. Perhaps it was the act of making the changes that stirred Jamie's comment, but understanding of that psychology eluded him by far.

“You haven’t eaten very much,” she complained. “I thought you would like this dish. It’s my specialty.”

“It’s better than good—and I’m going to get to it,” Jamie acknowledged. “I’m just thinking of some things right now.”

“What are you thinking about, Jamie?” she asked, as she leaned forward.

When she asked him that way it made Jamie want to tell her everything. When he told her little things, she understood how he felt about big things. She possessed the key to him and he was happy to allow her to turn the lock. “For one thing, I went to see Father Brendan yesterday. He’s very sick; it’s only a matter of time.”

“It was good of you to go to see him.”

“It would have been, if I had done it for him. I actually went for myself,” he admitted. “I went to say my confession to him.”

“It was a big step, Jamie.”

“Yes,” he answered. “It was less difficult than I once envisioned. I finally realized that I was never blameless, as I once believed. I thought it raised me on a pedestal and I wanted to stay there. There were some who refused to acknowledge it, and I was bitter. When I fell, I saw that no one noticed. It was the same as not existing. I was wrong.”

“I knew this would come about one day,” she said. “I thought it would be a longer time. Something must have happened.”

“It was when you asked me in for coffee last Saturday. I wanted to come in, but I turned you down. I asked myself why; at first I couldn’t find the answer.”

“But you finally figured it out?”

“It would have ruined everything between us,” he answered. “I couldn’t bring you down to my level. I needed to be clean again, to belong once more—to not be ashamed of what’s deep inside me.”

“But I am not blameless,” Connie said. “I have much to confess, and I do.”

“Maybe so,” Jamie replied, “but you have no arrogance of the soul, as I did.”

“Was Father Brendan hard on you?” she asked, her happy mood returning.

“Yes,” Jamie replied, “and he gave me a penance that I’ll never forget.” He told her of his visit to Ethan’s house.

“That was some penance,” Connie acknowledged. “He must be a very special man.”

“He truly is,” Jamie replied. “I’m going to miss him. I think that he’s taking his death better than I am. He told me to bring him back some whiskey, or not to bother coming back at all.”

Connie burst into laughter at hearing the part about the priest’s demand for whiskey. “I’d like to meet this man,” she said, and then turned serious. “And so, the confession gave you what you sought from it?”

“Yes, it did,” Jamie admitted.

“Then, what did you have on your mind that spoiled your appetite?” she demanded.

“That’s one thing I love about you, Connie,” he answered. “You always see right through me.”

Jamie saw her face, framed by the candlelight as she leaned closer, her stare sounded his depths. “Tell me, sir,” she asked, “what else do you love about me?”

Jamie heart skipped a beat at the moment of truth. He knew the words, but not how to say them. He knew he had to say them. He wanted them to sound just right. He feared disappointing her with inadequacy, but he was no poet. The words were simple enough and he blurted them out.

“Connie, I love everything about you.”

Her eyes watered, as she heard the words. The tears glistened in the flames’ reflections. She didn’t move, spoke plainly, without hesitation. “I love you, too, Jamie.”

They were the words that he’d hoped for, sounding sweet, as he imagined. He discarded the notion of rising from the table to make a romantic gesture. Such fakery would have sacrileged the honesty of the moment, and of her.

“I was hoping that you’d say that,” he said.

“Then, you’re going to stay for coffee this time?” she asked.

Jamie noticed her trembling as she waited for his answer. She must have known what it would be. He covered her hand with his. “I never drink it in the evening, but I’d like some in the morning.”

“I’m too old to be seduced, Jamie.”

“I wasn’t too old,” he replied. “I was seduced more than once, and not just by lovers. I just went along with whatever happened. I knew that I would never seduce you, but it’s not about age. If you ever came to me, it would be of your own free will.”

“It is, Jamie, but I’m as nervous as a schoolgirl,” she pleaded. “Will you show me what I have to know?”

“I’ll show you some things,” he promised. “You’ll show me some others.”

***********

“Give me a few minutes, and then come upstairs,” she bade him as she made her way to the stairway.

Jamie poured out the last of the wine and sat in the living room trying to relax. It wasn’t easy to do. He had never even kissed the woman he was preparing to introduce to physical love. In all his past encounters, he had always been the least experienced.

“What does it matter,” he thought as he emptied the glass. “It’s new for both of us.

When he arrived at the top of the stairs all was dark, except for a lamp glowing from inside Connie’s bedroom. He walked in slowly; she sat in bed waiting for him. She had propped the pillows behind her back, pulled the covers up to her chin. She didn’t say a word as he undressed. He stripped off all his clothes, except his boxers and approached the bed.

Her hands lowered as he approached, allowing the covers to pile at her waist. She wore a negligee made of white satin. He saw her breasts, cradled in the shiny cloth. The tops of them showed over the top of the bodice. Her nipples pressed an outline in the fabric. “Wait, let me show you,” she whispered.

She pulled the covers aside, reclining against the pillows. Her gown was full length. Only her feet showed below the hem. Her form pressed against the satin. He had never contemplated the features of her body. It was fit and trim, if not seductive, with ample, but not oversized, breasts. She smiled at him.

“Do you like it? I bought it last night, hoping that things would work out for us.”

“I’m glad that you did,” he answered. “It’s a beautiful gown with you in it.” He began to reach his hands out to begin disrobing her, but she stopped him.

“Let me see it,” she begged, her eyes glued to his groin. He understood what she wanted and pulled the waistband of his boxers over his erection, letting let them fall to his feet. She gazed at it for several moments. Jamie was erect; the fluid of anticipation leaked out in viscous droplets. “I’m ready,” she said, and reached over her head to switch off the lamp.

“Wait,” Jamie stopped her. “Let me see.” He stepped forward, and pushed down the thin straps from her shoulders. He peeled the gown away from her breasts, letting them drape naturally on her chest. He placed his hands on them and softly stroked them down from the tops and up from underneath. His thumbs caressed the nipples. He felt pleasure as she purred at the new sensation.

He leaned down and kissed each hardened bud. She took his penis in her hand. He kissed her on the lips. At first, she was unsure how to kiss back, but learned it quickly. When the kiss was done, he tugged the gown some more. She lifted her hips to assist him in removing it. She was revealed, as he was. He beheld the sight, promising himself to never forget it.

Jamie reached over her head to turn out the light. Connie slid down to lie on her back as Jamie joined her on the bed. He wanted to give her many pleasures; she opened herself to them. They were embracing, touching, pleasuring, and allowing desire to grow. They took their time; neither counted the minutes.

Jamie sensed that they were ready. He gently pressed the inside of her thigh. She knew what he meant and opened them wide. He placed himself between them and he bent low to kiss her once again. His penis pressed her at the juncture of her spread legs; the soft, warm flesh of her breasts pressed up against the skin of his chest.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I think so.”

Jamie shifted his weight to his elbows. “Bend your knees up,” he advised. As she did the end of him slipped slightly between her moist lips. She breathed harder; final joining was close at hand. Jamie pressed forward just a little. She sucked in a breath.

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“It didn’t hurt. I’m fine. It’s just that I know it’s really happening.”

“We’ll go slow,” Jamie assured her. He pressed in some more. He was about half way inside her.

“It’s so full, Jamie,” she breathed up at him.

“We’ll wait while you get used to it,” he said.

“No, now!” she cried as she thrust her pelvis up at him and he slid all the way into her. She paused when he completed the journey. “Oh, Jamie—this is so good!” she panted.

Jamie withdrew and thrust forward again. She pushed herself up to meet him. Each time they repeated the motion, their pleasure grew. She cried out in climax. As she finished, he allowed himself to release into her. He stayed inside until he softened, and then dismounted her and they lay embracing side by side. Soon they fell asleep She had given her whole self to him, and he returned the same. It would always be that way.

When Jamie woke in the morning Connie was already smiling down at him as she propped herself on her elbows. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“I feel wonderful; you were wonderful. I want to make love to you again.”

They did, and then arose and went to Connie’s church where they took Communion together. Afterward, they returned to her house for breakfast and made love again until the next morning.

**************

Jamie was a bundle of nerves as he drove the ninety miles to Salamanca. Of the scores of resumes that he had sent out, it was the only interview granted so far and it was a job that he really wanted. Winter was giving way to spring. The forests were enjoying their annual rebirth. He hoped for a rebirth of his career.

He could, of course, go to Nathan and reclaim his old job. If Nathan had called him, he would probably have accepted. There had been no call. Jamie reasoned that Nathan was waiting to see if the remedial classes would be successful. Nathan wouldn’t risk hitching his wagon to a falling star.

Jamie knew, too, that the High School was in more trouble than the small corner of it that he knew. For one thing, he heard that Henry Thompson had resigned as of the end of the school year. Vicki would be moving over to take her new job at the District, so they would be short an English teacher. Tracey mentioned that she had decided to look elsewhere, too.

With Bob Jackson’s departure, the bond issue was never brought forward, so the new school roof was put off for another year. To make matters worse, the Teachers’ Union contract was up for renewal. Ed Cassidy was under pressure to negotiate some big raises. As Jamie thought about it, he had to reluctantly feel sorry for Nathan, having found a bag of snakes in his executive chair.

Jamie snapped back to the task at hand as he guided his car into a visitors’ space in the parking lot.

“Welcome, Mr. O’Toole,” the receptionist greeted him. “There’s a little room just over there for your boots and overcoat, and a restroom just down the hall. When you’re ready I’ll take you to the Council Room.”

When he returned she guided him to a large meeting room, centered by a long, polished, wooden table. “You’re just a little bit early. Have a seat on this side of the table. You will be meeting with three members of the Council. “Brant Russell, the President of the Council will be here. He’ll introduce the others.”

Jamie was nervous as he sat at the table awaiting the entry of his questioners. He was tempted to walk around and peruse the plaques and certificates dotting the walls of the room. He thought better of it and pulled his resume from his briefcase to review it. He still wasn’t sure how he would handle the questions about all the rumors that were damaging his reputation. They were sure to come up before the interview was over.

Without warning, the door by which Jamie entered swung open. A man, followed by two women, came in and walked single file to their places on the opposite side of the table. The man took the center chair, flanked by the women. Jamie rose as they paraded by; no one said a word until each stood at their assigned spots.

“I’m Brant Russell; I am President of the Council,” said the leader, extending a hand. Jamie reached out and grasped it. “With me are two Council members, Sheila Morningstar and Catherine Gibson. Mrs. Gibson is the High School Principal.” Jamie shook their hands as well.

Russell was not tall, but square shouldered and barrel-chested. His copper-skinned face was craggy with the experience of his fifty-eight years. His hair was peppered in grey and braided down his back in the Indian style.

“Thank you for coming all this way, Mr. O’Toole,” Russell began. “There are nine Council members. We are appointed as the Search Committee. We already know your background. I think we can skip the preliminaries and get right to the heart of what we need to talk about.”

“I’m ready to answer your questions,” Jamie replied.

“For starters,” Russell began, “tell us why you wish to be the Chair of the Math Department at our Reservation School.”

“I want to teach students who are serious about learning,” Jamie answered. “Math is a gateway to bigger things for students. Many think they can’t do it. I know how to make it happen for them, if they want it.”

“We want our students to get accepted at the better colleges,” Principal Gibson said. She was roughly Jamie’s age, a long, slender woman, who eyed him through thick-lensed glasses. Her black hair would have fallen to her shoulders, if not tied back.

“If Math is the issue, it can be resolved over time. Math isn’t only for the very best students,” Jamie continued. “All students need it in a form that will suit them in whatever walk of life they choose.” Jamie expounded at length on his methods and how he would implement his program. He was comfortable talking about it and he could see that he had their attention.

“Tell us about your episode with the pregnant girl,” Sheila Morningstar suddenly insisted without warning. She was a heavy-set woman with a kind face, a Native American, in her late fifties, or perhaps her sixties.

“I did what I thought was right. I had little time to think it over. The girl was lost and alone. I felt compassion for her. I guess that’s what drove me to do what I did.”

“You risked your job to help a girl whose father hated you?” his inquisitor pressed on.

Jamie heard the door open in the back of the room. He dared not turn to look, for fear of appearing evasive to the question. “I was in a certain place in a certain moment. Other teachers would have done the same; I’m sure of it.”

“But her father did so much to hurt you…” she insisted.

“I didn’t think of it then. I don’t think it should have made a difference,” Jamie answered. “I’ve since made my peace with her father.”

“My question is whether you’d do the same for an Indian girl,” Russell interjected.

“I hope that I would,” Jamie answered. “Who’s to say? I once thought that right and wrong were adjustable according to the situation. It was confusing and I was afraid to face it. I was wrong and I’ve learned not to fear it.”

“Then, what are you afraid of?” Russell demanded.

“Forgetting what I’ve learned,” Jamie shot back without hesitation. “And not learning more,” he quickly added. Brant Russell sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

“A good answer,” he declared, as he nodded to the others. “You should know that your answer does not surprise us.”

“I don’t understand,” Jamie said. He was wondering why the committee knew so much about him.

“One of our people has told us your story and recommended you,” Russell said as he pointed to the back of the room. “Henry Thompson will be joining us as Assistant Principal in September.”

Jamie swiveled his head to the back of the room. It had been Henry who came into the Council Room in the middle of his interview. “Hello, James,” he called out from the back of the room.

**************

Bowling season was wrapping up. Jamie’s average was up to one-sixty-five. He looked forward to the camaraderie each Thursday night. Bubba was making it about half the time. Abby had not been with him since the night she tried to force him back to her bed. Jamie wondered about it, but thought not to bring it up.

After the bowling match Jamie and Bubba stayed behind for a few beers. Bubba was always congenial, but on this occasion he was in an especially good mood.

“I was thinkin’ of askin’ ya to go down South with me on the truck this summer, Jamie,” he said before gulping the remnants of his beer. “’Had to change my mind, though.”

“You’re not going to tell my why until I ask you,” Jamie joked. “Am I right?”

“That ya are, Jamie. So, are ya askin’?”

“I guess I am,” Jamie replied.

“Abby’s goin’ with me instead,” Bubba beamed proudly. “I’ll miss havin’ ya with me, but cha’ understand…”

“I think it’s great, Bubba.”

“Abby told me the whole story,” Bubba said. “We had it out big-time one night, and this is what came of it.”

“Sounds like a good result,” Jamie said.

“Of course, she won’t be able to work on the loadin’ and unloadin’ like you could, but she can do other things.” Bubba started grinning.

“She won’t go for the cigar smoke, either,” Jamie warned.

“I know; I know,” Bubba grumbled.

“Are you ready for another one?” Jamie held up two fingers to signal the bartender.

“If you had gone with Abby like she wanted you to, none of this would have ever come about. You could have, Jamie. I told you to go ahead—but you didn’t. You did it for me; you’re a real friend.”

When the beers arrived Jamie lifted his glass to Bubba’s. “Here’s to you, Bubba. I wish you and Abby all the best.” They both took a big swallow.

“It’s the best eleven hundred I ever spent!” Bubba cried and dissolved into laughter as he slapped Jamie on the back.

“Are you and Abby going to use the sleeper cab?” Jamie asked.

“Sure, why not?” he answered.

“You better put some heavy duty springs on it, that’s all I can say,” Jamie answered.”

*************

When Easter Sunday arrived in the valley, it was accompanied by rain and sleet. The weather turned sunny and pleasant a few two weeks later. It suited Ethan’s purpose because he had chosen that day for the “Laying on of Hands”. The nicer weather was certain to produce a better crowd for the special day. Ethan could barely wait because Jarrod’s dictum of a happier tone and swinging music wasn’t Ethan’s style at all.

He was nearly ready to make the short walk from the manse to the grey, stone church. Before he left he stopped at the medicine chest for some aspirin.

He was getting headaches often in those days. They came on especially strong after his visit to Tracey’s house, where she swooned under him as he approached her for anointing. He felt her enraptured body crumple on the floor waiting to receive him.

He was certain that the headaches were from the special grace he received from the anointings. It was spinning in his brain, and if that caused the pain he was willing to accept it. The pain brought its gift. As the throbbing eased, he had revelations. The more intense the pain, the clearer was the after-vision. He began to look forward to the agony. It was an earthly matter; the visions were ethereal, spanning the breach between earth and heaven..

As he neared the granite steps of the church he saw the congregation filtering in. There were many with wheelchairs and crutches; some were bent over, most were old and had forsaken hope of healing. They just yearned for recognition as a suffering being and comfort where and if they could find it. A few cried out in greeting as Ethan passed by.

He would have liked to pause and talk with them but he spied Jarrod standing at the large doorway. There was a young man standing with him. Jarrod had been distant lately and Ethan couldn’t figure out why. This service was sure to get the congregation excited again. That, and the spring weather, would fill up the pews anew, which is what Jarrod always liked.

As Jarrod saw Ethan marching up the steps toward him he shrank further backwards into the vestibule and the young man disappeared with him. Ethan found them in a dark corner near the stairway that led to the choir loft.

“It’s a fine day, Jarrod.”

“Ethan, just keep this nice and simple. We don’t need any incidents,” Jarrod warned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ethan replied. “Why do you speak to me in that tone, Jarrod?”

“Just remember what I said, Ethan.”

Ethan turned to greet a few members who walked by. He watched the congregation file in, one by one. They had really come out for his big day.

“I want you to meet someone, Ethan,” Jarrod spoke from behind him. Ethan was barely listening to him.

“This is Elvis Means. I asked him to come here.

“Yes, yes,” Ethan answered absent-mindedly, more interested in the number of sheep in the flock.

“He’s a Divinity School student—finishing in a few weeks,” Jarrod continued. Ethan was watching them continue to pour in, wondering what to do in case of an overflow. He wanted to lay hands on them all.

“I asked him to come here to be Temporary Assistant Pastor to help you get a rest,” Jarrod concluded.

“Huh!” Ethan snapped his head around and eyed the young man from head to toe. He was callow and lean, barely with whiskers. He wore glasses and cropped hair that made his ears appear to stick out even more than they did. He looked like Ethan might have years ago.

“I don’t need a rest,” Ethan insisted. “I’ve never had a rest. I told you that, Jarrod.”

“It’s my decision, Ethan. I can get the Board to approve it with or without you.”

“I won’t have it,” Ethan declared. “Go away, young man. You’re not needed here.” He abruptly turned away from them and sped into the sanctuary to be with those who had come to see him.

“I’ve never heard of this kind of service,” young Elvis said to Jarrod.

“I was afraid of that,” Jarrod snapped. “It’s too late to do anything about it now. Stick close to me.” They went inside and Jarrod took his accustomed place in the front pew. His new protégé sat next to him.

Ethan walked slowly to the center of the sanctuary. He stood confidently facing the congregation. Jarrod’s imposition of young Means had brought his headache back. His special grace was stirring in his brain again.

Raising his eyes to heaven Ethan cried out, “The Centurion’s Servant shall be healed!”

The organ began playing restful chords at half volume. Ethan stared out among the throng. He saw them waiting with eager eyes. When he was sure that their expectations were piqued, he raised both hands in a beckoning gesture and cried out once again, “Lazarus, I bid thee, come forth!”

Elvis Means turned to Jarrod, whispering in his ear, “This is not scripture,” he said. “He’s mixing it up. They are different miracles. He is way off-base.”

“I know,” Ethan answered. “We can’t stop him now.”

The infirm slowly approached Ethan who stood on a step at the head of the center aisle looking down at them. Those who would have Ethan’s hands laid on them were mostly old, but the first was a young boy who hobbled up to him wearing a cast on his leg. As each of the faithful approached, Ethan would place his hands on the head of the hopeful one, close his eyes and mumble a silent prayer. When Ethan removed his hands, the person would move away and a new pilgrim would step into place. There had been no practice or rehearsal. The faithful lined up out of instinct.

Ethan’s headache pounded, so he sensed a revelation coming on. The pain throbbed so much that it hurt his eyes to open them to allow in light. He exulted, for in the light, he reasoned, must be that which was to come to him. So, he did open up his eyes to allow in the agony and the vision.

Mrs. Harper was third in line. As Ethan laid his hands on another afflicted soul, he thought about her. She never disclosed her age. It was rumored that she was eighty-eight, although a few thought her older. She was fifteen years a widow. She crept up the aisle behind her walker. As Ethan focused on her he could see a halo forming around her head.

When it was finally her turn to receive Ethan’s hands, he hesitated for a second. The throbbing in his head accelerated. Mrs. Harper looked up at him, expecting Ethan’s firm touch. She removed her hat to make easier for him.

Ethan reached out his hands to settle on the gray head, but sudden inspiration made him bend lower and grasp the handles of the old woman’s walker. The pain was nearly blinding him as he bent from the waist. “Take up thy pallet and walk!” he roared.

Ethan seized the walker, ignoring the gasps of the people who saw what he’d done and the shocked expression in the old woman’s face. He straightened up and flung the walker to the side. It flew through the air and landed in a pew as those seated there scattered to dodge it. Mrs. Harper stood speechless for a few seconds, balancing tentatively on unsure feet. She then fell unceremoniously on her knees, crying out in pain, and then fell prone, striking her face on the step at Ethan’s feet.

“Grab him!” Jarrod commanded in a loud voice as he and Elvis Means rushed forward. Several other men had come forward, too. They gripped Ethan as he struggled. He was wild-eyed and in a rage. As the men restrained him he saw Jarrod standing before him with Ethan’s would-be supplanter at his side.

“Thou art Judas!” Ethan bellowed at Jarrod and he struggled anew to loosen himself. “Judas!” Ethan repeated, and refused to stop struggling.

“Get him out of here,” Jarrod ordered. The men dragged him from the sanctuary. Jarrod stepped to where Ethan had been standing and brought the assembly to his attention. “This is Reverend Elvis Means,” Jarrod calmly said. “I’ve brought him here to…”

Ethan heard the introduction as he was being led out the door. “Judas!” the congregation heard him scream from afar. The young Reverend Means stepped before them as they carried Mrs. Harper away.

“Let’s pray for the speedy recovery…”

*******************

It was nearly dark when Ethan woke up in his bed; all was quiet. His headache was gone, but not the memory of how he was dragged from his church hours ago by the men in his own congregation.

“I was wrong,” Ethan mumbled. “Mrs. Harper didn’t have the faith to be healed. I should have chosen someone else.” He wondered at the faultiness in his vision.

He swung his legs out of bed and his feet landed on the floor. He stood and dressed in the clothes that his captors had set on the chair after putting him in his bed and given him some pills to sleep. As his hand tried to turn the knob of the bedroom door it stuck. He jiggled it, but it refused to budge. He knew that he was locked in.

He spent a few moments in consternation, and then turned and stepped to the bedroom window. He raised it and slipped out onto the roof of the porch and then climbed down the trellis. It collapsed on his way down and the thorns of the climbing roses gouged his face and hands. He was dripping blood, but made no effort to stop the bleeding. He knew that the spare key to the house was beneath the mat, and soon he was roaming free inside the manse.

“Things need doing in the church. I’ll do that little job in the choir loft.” When stressed Ethan liked to putter about fixing little things.

He found the spare key in his desk and walked deliberately to the church. There was no one on the street in the early evening.

“I’ve been wanting to take care of this for a while,” he said to himself.

In the maintenance closet in the basement were the things he needed. He stumbled through the clutter: paints, two-by-fours from the manger scene, rope for hoisting, brooms, broomsticks without brooms, hand tools, cleaning supplies. He sorted through them, shaking his head at the mess. When he gathered what he needed he trod up the stairs to the main floor and up another stairway to the choir loft. He thought it amusing that he was in his Sunday-best suit carrying the items from the maintenance closet. His bleeding left a trail of blood on the floor.

When he got to the choir loft he took off his suit coat and slipped off his tie in noose like fashion and hung them on the crosspiece that he brought with him. He moved over a chair near the railing so he could fasten the rope to the rafter. It was quite a job. He was finally able to throw it over the beam and secure it, but not before nearly falling from the chair.

“I should have turned on the lights,” he thought.

No matter, he was nearly done. It was time to get in full dress again. He slipped the noose back over his head, and notched it up a little tighter. His headache was coming back—soon it would be at full strength. He had to hurry. He slipped his jacket back on with some difficulty.

He stepped back onto the chair. His head hurt so much that it was hard to balance, but he made himself rise to the occasion. He looked a last time to heaven.

“Into Thy hands I commend my spirit!” he cried, and fell forward into the unknown.

The next morning Jarrod took Elvis and Doc Barnes to the manse to look in on Ethan. They planned to take him for treatment somewhere. After a search they finally found him hanging silently in the noose attached to the beam over the choir loft. He was stiff with rigor mortis. A broomstick was strung through the sleeves of his jacket to stretch out his arms in the form of a cross. Dried blood was in streaks on his face and hands.

The three men stood speechless for a minute, gazing up at the lifeless body. It was impossible for them to tell if the the face looking back at them bore Ethan’s final moments of terror, or rage or agony.

“The scene in the church yesterday must have driven him over the edge,” Elvis Means said.

“We’ll have to call the the Authoities and have him taken down, the doctor said.

“He must have thought he waas God,” Means continued, speaking more to himself than to the others.

Jarrod huffed in displeasure. “Ethan’s trouble was that he always took things too far.”

***************

A week after Ethan’s death the talk was lively at Harvey English’s Barber Shop.

“The wife and I already decided to switch to Presbyterian,” Harvey said as he chopped away at Bert Hodges.

“I put the blame on Jarrod,” Brice Barlow declared. “After he was arrested it all became very clear. He put a lot of pressure on Ethan.”

“I heard he’s going to plead ‘guilty’. What do you think he’ll get?” Bert asked.

“Hard to say for sure,” Brice replied. “I think a couple of years. Whatever it is, he’s finished in Bates.”

“Ethan brought a lot of it on himself,” Bert said. “His battle against James O’Toole is what did it.”

“So it was O’Toole’s doing, too,” Harvey concluded. “It was a sad day when he came into this valley. Don’t forget that it was Nathan who brought him here. At least, none of us are to blame.”

“You’re wrong, Harvey,” Bert said, “I got to know…”

“You’ve gone soft,” Harvey scolded. “Ethan might have tried to move too fast, but…”

“What does it matter now?” Brice asked. “I heard that he’s leaving soon.”

“Not too soon for me,” Harvey said.

“How did Mrs. Harper come out of it?” Bert asked.

“Cracked patellas and a broken tooth,” Harvey answered.

“I think that we’re going to change churches, too,” Bert declared.

*************

Connie and Jamie stood side by side. Connie had his arm in a vise-like grip. She was beaming. Jamie endured it placidly enough. He had the look of a grateful sheep preparing to be shorn, fortunate to not be one of those led to the slaughter.

It was a fine spring afternoon—a Friday. The month of May would be arriving very soon. The balmy weather reminded Jamie of his walk with Father Brendan years ago and how he learned of the mystery of free will. As he stood with Connie, he realized how deep that mystery truly was.

Father Mark was at the bedside with them as witness, and held the book open for the old priest, propped up to a half sitting position. It had been accomplished with great effort for the sick man moved with great pain in those final days. But, he was still a priest and he knew that by enduring the pain he would learn a little bit of Truth—and Truth was still his stock in trade.

“Do ye, Concetta, take d’is man, James t’ be yer lawful husban’?”

“I do,” she answered.

“D’at bein’ the case, I now pronounce ye man an’ wife.”

Jamie reached out to take Connie in his arms, but the old man feebly raised his arm to halt him.

“I’ll ’ave th’ first kiss from th’ bride, if ye don’t mind, boy.”

Connie bent low and kissed Father Brendan’s forehead.

“T’ank you, lass, an’ now I got weddin’ gifts fer ye both.” Father Mark produced an envelope and a flat, rectangular box covered in gold foil. “The box is fer ye, child.”

Connie took the box from Father Mark, tentatively looking at them all before opening it. She gasped as she lifted the lid.

“It’s the crucifix d’at hung over m’ head all m’ years in the priesthood.” Jamie looked into the box and recognized the cross from Father Brendan’s office. It was simple, yet powerful. It was made of brass, so that its Truth would never splinter or fade; the polish of it would be the duty of the owner.

“Father, thank you, but I could never accept this,” Connie pleaded.

“Ye will accept it with m’ blessin’,” Father Brendan insisted. “If ye’re to spend yer days lookin’ after d’is lout, ye’ll need all o’ the help ye can get.” He patted her on the hand, as she wiped a tear that had run down her cheek.

“The env’lope is fer ye, Jamie. Open it another day when the time is right—ye’ll know when.” A nurse arrived at the foot of the bed, waiting patiently to check the Father’s intravenous lines. “I’ll give ye all m’ blessin’,” he said, “and when Fadder Mark takes ye back t’ the residence, he’ll give ye a dram o’ whiskey from m’ private stock.” He summoned all his strength to raise his right hand. “After I bless ye, I’m goin’ t’ sleep fer a while. I’m so tired.” He cleaved the air with a tiny cross. “In nómine Patris, et Fili, et Spirítus Sancti,” he whispered.

************

After the blessing Father Brendan drifted to sleep. He slept for two more days, never waking. Jamie and Connie had planned a trip to Boston to visit Jamie’s parents, but postponed it because they knew that his end was near. The funeral wasn’t sad. All there agreed that the old priest’s wisdom lived inside them and there was certainty among some that he was at that moment putting the Almighty into a state of consternation with his riddles and questions filled with Truth and vexation.

“Maybe the Almighty will send him back,” Father Mark said, and all present had a final laugh with the old man.

After the funeral Jamie and Connie drove down to Bates. Jamie’s days in the town were ending. He still tutored Raymond each week and worked at the Feed Mill. He was finishing up the remedial Trig classes and still worried about those half-dozen borderline students.

They were temporarily living at Connie’s house and looking for a new place closer to Jamie’s new job at the Reservation School. He still had a few things to clean out of his trailer and he wanted to introduce Connie to a few people.

On the drive into the Village they stopped on the ridge. They parked the car at the same spot that he had nearly a year ago on that late August afternoon. He looked back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Becky and Brad covertly eying him from their lair in the glade of trees, but there was only fresh, green grass waving in the breeze.

The town looked different than it did the first time. Some of the lines weren’t quite as defined and the large buildings were far less fearsome. He could see Mrs. Wilkinson’s boarding house. Tracey’s little ranch house was not far from it. It was where he tutored Raymond all those weeks and Shirley brought him cookies. Tracey was seeing Hal in earnest and would soon move away.

Ethan’s Church stood in the distance. The gray granite edifice resembled a shadow. Reverend Means went back to the seminary. Jarrod had brought him to Bates, and with his disgraced Meas’ nexus dissolved. The Church had no pastor. The congregation was disintegrating after Ethan’s demise and Jarrod’s arrest.

In the distance Jamie imagined he could hear the rumble of Bubba’s truck. He and Abby were inside laughing and Vicki was calling after them. Of course, there was the school sprawling out on the edge of town and all that it meant, and could have meant.

The year had brought suffering to Jamie, but he regretted none of what he endured. He had done good things and bad, and understanding had settled on him. Sitting beside him, Connie watched him silently sort out the past.

“When are you going to open Father Brendan’s envelope?”

“Right now would be a good time,” he answered. Connie always knew the right timing for such things, just like the old priest.

Jamie carefully opened the small, square envelope in the heavy-bonded cream stationery. Inside were a handwritten note and another smaller envelope. Jamie set the little envelope aside and read what Father Brendan had to say to him from the grave. He finished and opened the small envelope. Inside it was a small card. Jamie looked quickly at it. He smiled and nodded, and then handed them over to Connie to read, too.

The note was dated on the same day that Jamie signed his exit papers in Father Brendan’s office. Though written, he heard Father Brendan’s voice echo from it:

Dear Jamie,

If ye’re reading d’is, ’'t will mean d’at I’ve gone to m’ reward, an’ I look forward to the day d’at we’ll meet ag’in.

Boy, I promised to tell ye th’ name o’ th’ “Eighth Deadly Sin”—an’ now I’ll reveal it to ye. Ye must defeat this sin or ye’ll ne’er know Truth ’r see yerself ’r anyone, as the human bein’s d’at we all are.

T’is the true Orig’nal Sin, boy, an’ ye’ll wash ‘t from yer soul by livin’ life, itself an’ askin’ Himself t’ help ye understand what it all means.. If you wish t’ see its name, ye’ll find it writ on the card in the small env’lope.

God bless ye and keep ye,

Father Brendan

Connie turned the card over and read the single word printed on it in bold letters, the name of the Eighth Deadly Sin.

“If he had told me when I wanted him to, I would never have understood,” Jamie attested.

Connie looked at Jamie and smiled, too. She set the card on the dashboard, the name of the sin looking back at them.

INNOCENCE

“I’ll miss him, and his wisdom,” Jamie said.

Connie took a deep breath as she looked out over the ridge. “Jamie, you better get down there.”

********************

THE END

Dear Readers,

This story ends with the beginning of Jamie’s and Connie’s life together. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did bringing it to you. I look forward to receiving your questions and comments.

Good reading and best regards,

Autumn Writer